Found Anna in her cherished windowed corner kitchen, glowing in the blank bright white of day, parleying with succulents, mending her mane.
We et up Chinatown and stomped around SoHo,
went to Coney Island to see what Grandma had to say.
Oh, the possibilities! The claptrap chasms!
Danced the darkness in and away.
This is Part 1 of 2 describing my trip to Costa Rica, April 17–28, 2012. This post covers the first leg, when I was working in the capital San José, with some exploring on my own but mostly touring with university folks. Part 2 focuses on my solo trip to Limón Province on the Caribbean Coast.
There aren’t many librarian positions for which you routinely travel. I wager none send you to Costa Rica… until now. ;P
We usually “set up campus” in US cities for a few days to teach research skills to doctoral students. By now, a trip to Atlanta or Miami’s old hat. The international destinations occur less often, though, and while we take turns, I had little seniority amongst fellow librarians, bummed when colleagues took off for Madrid or Hawaii (which we consider sufficiently exotic to designate as “international”).
No use getting too jealous, though, or even too excited, as destinations may be canceled with little notice. I didn’t even know where I stood in line when suddenly Costa Rica fell into my lap.
Do I want to go?
Hell yes.
While I’ve been running all over the United States lately, it’s been a long time since I’ve stepped a bit further, out of my culture and comfort. I’d never been to Central America, or even Mexico. I signed up for a community education Spanish class and started drilling my siblings; a couple years ago, my brothers Ben and Sam and their wives Kylee and Amy honeymooned in Puerto Viejo, on the Caribbean side.
In San José and beyond, many spoke English; many did not. I consider my Spanish proficiency quite low but was consistently surprised by what I did know, vocabulary culled from workbooks, phone apps and Cormac McCarthy nightmare-scapes in new, useful contexts, undeniably rudimentary but enough to get by.
Additionally, importantly, most of the “work portion” of the trip was structured, in English, safe, and dull. I didn’t mind. I was working, learning and teaching new sessions, slowly easing into the idea that after a few days, I’d be off on my own, alone, in a foreign country with a toddler’s grasp of the language and a pack that, let’s face it, was way too shiny and new.
Work was conducted at a suburban Ramada, positioned between the airport and downtown. The interior was lush and resort-like,
…while a higher vantage revealed a gated community feel, plunk in the middle of industry. Meh. It worked.
As always with me, anything unfamiliar becomes instantly fascinating. Palm trees! Rusted metal rooftops superclosetogether!
The hotel’s signature decor was silly reimaginings of famous artwork. A+
I was also quickly exposed to the Cult of Imperial.
The mall across the street had a food court with KFC and Mickey D, clothes that wouldn’t fit and books I couldn’t read (but, of course, worth checking out anyway. I bought a bottle of water todos en Español and crowed for hours). Coworkers and I trekked about a bit for supper and such, but otherwise, the Ramada was Life for much of five days.
One exception was a bus tour with all students, faculty and staff. We careened through rush hour downtown while our guide tried to tell us about the soul of his country.
Though very much contained, the tour was far from controlled, from what we saw to what we thought and felt about it.
Someone said the razor-wire was decorative, a symbol of prestige, or faking it. If you wrap your home in barbs, you must be guarding treasure, riches a thief would need to shred flesh to see, to believe that you made it, you’re a success.
Taken from a moving bus, this shot is far from stellar, but I can’t help but marvel at the carrion.
Encouraged to ask questions by our guide, I requested he tell us a Costa Rican myth or superstition. He was older, late sixties, miffed. Why would I want to know about that? Mostly because he said he’d studied, among other things, folklore at university, but I was genuinely interested.
What does your soul look like?
What haunts people here?
“If you stay out late, drinking with your frens, you might hear a clank sound of metal. It is a dog with legs out of metal. He will get you. If you stay out late, drinking with your frens, and maybe you see a woman but who is not your wife, there will be a priest, but he won’t have a head. He will get you.”
At last we arrived at the top of a mountain, the city sparkling below.
After an amazing dinner, we saw a traditional dancing show. In my Spanish class, we had to do a group presentation on a country of our choice. Naturally, I strong-armed my mates into Costa Rica. My culture segment was on dance, none other than the one I was about to see live: Punto Guanacasteco, a flirtatious courtship couples dance. I knew all about it, could even talk about it in Spanish.
Las mujeres toman sus faldas con sus manos y bailan! Los hombres les gustan las mujeres, pero las mujeres son timidas!
I was thrilled—and it was hokey to be thrilled, but it was so fun and so dorky and cool, the teen- and college-aged dancers with a tinge of chagrin this ain’t really what we’re like, ya know? but sucking it up and owning it all anyway.
Coworkers and I spent a good portion of the evening speculating on the life and times of the suave but rakish, somewhat aggressive emcee:
Members of the audience were eventually pulled onto the floor, first by the traditional dancers and later by giant paper-mache head cultural figures (which jarringly included a blackface minstrel character. Eep). I danced with, I think, an Aztec, to resounding cheers and the bafflement of my students the next morning (“Wait… you’re the librarian?“).
There is allegedly photographic evidence of this, but I do not have it. I was later personally complimented by the owner of the restaurant / mountain, whom I’m given to understand is a ridiculously rich man. “You dance very nice!” Gracias, amigo! El mundo está de acuerdo!
The festivities later spilled outside, complete with fireworks that threatened to burn down the mountain while the band kept jamming and the costumed kids twirled and jumped and photobombed every shot possible.
It was one of the moments where my piecemeal, garbage-mess Spanish amazed me. La bruja! El soldado! El campesino! La muerte! El diablito!
I KNOW ALL THESE GUYS!
Go to Part 2: Limón, where I travel to the Caribbean Coast!
This is Part 2 of a double post describing my trip to Costa Rica, April 17–28, 2012. Part 1 centers on San José, where I was working for a few days. This post focuses on the off-on-my-own, terrifying-crazy-awesome-fun time when I stayed in hostels on the Caribbean Sea.
I tried to get someone to come with me. But time and money, they don’t come easy. I didn’t think for a second just to skip it, yellerbelly not set forth on my own. This was Opportunity, handed right to me. It would be a waste to work a few days then go home.
But I would not have done this independently of already being in the country. I am not a particularly seasoned traveler. I “lived abroad” but uhhhh it was Canada. The last time I’d truly been far from familiarity was when I went to Germany and China as a teen—with herds of other tourists and adults doing the thinking.
All of this to say, somewhere along the way my wanderlust got rusty. In theory, ADVENTURE! In practice I don’t put my passport where my mouth is.
Throughout my time in San José, I was nervous—a good scared, but scared, grinning and crapping my pants knowing that soon I would be on my own. The work buffer was great to help me acculturate, learn the currency and collect bearings, but when I headed for the bus station across the city (for which I had no verifiable official name or actual address, to catch a bus I couldn’t book in advance, to be dropped off at another non-address oh lord) what was I thinking.
That everything would be fine.
It was.
For months I’d studied travel books and the advice of my siblings, trying to decide where to go. I ended up mostly following in their footsteps, which at first I wanted to avoid, like an ornery kid sister who wants her own story. Pshhh. They choose well, and I was wise to follow after: to Limón Province on the Caribbean Sea. They stayed in Puerto Viejo—I opted for Punta Uva a few kilometers away for three nights, which was more secluded with nicer beach, then in Puerto Viejo another two, closer to the action (restaurants, shops, reggae nonstop).
The next several shots I took from the bus, a trip of about 5 hours.
It was a Sunday and hot, the rivers filled with families.
We had a short break in Puerto Limón, next to a fantastic graveyard. Photos = necessary. A guy on the street laughed at me. I know the Spanish word for cemetery—I tried to read a bit of El Libro del Cementerio—but I didn’t know how to say Death Reference Librarian, or dark tourism, or taphophilia, so I smiled and shrugged, which made him laugh more.
Arrived at last!
After checking into my hostel, I raced to the beach 5 minutes away to see the sea before the sun set. Being so close to the equator, here night falls at about 6pm.
Walaba Hostel oozed charm.
Terrific communal space…
Nooks to relax…
More metal roofs tickling mah fancy…
My bunk room was relatively open to the unholy grumbles of the howler monkeys raging against the nightly storms. They sounded like dinosaurs or rabid dogs, and I wanted to see one, badly. Other people claimed to see them while lying in bed, looking out the window, or lounging in a hammock, or heck just walking down the street.
But I didn’t. See. A single monkey in the wild. Squirrels masquerading as monkeys? Yes. Monkey-shaped shadows and leaves? Plenty. Monkey monkeys? No. Muy disappointing.
At $6 a day, these cruisers were the bomb.
Despite being sunny every day in San José, when I got to the coast, it poured daily.
But if I let wet stop me, I wouldn’t have done anything. I grabbed a bike and rode to Manzanillo, a quiet town a few kilometers away.
I know this one!
BUZZARDS.
For a while I biked into what I think was a park, but honestly I don’t know am I supposed to be here?
Probably.
Not.
Definitely yes.
While great to meet people and tour about with others, exploring on my own was amazing. The sound of the sea, not a soul in sight… so peaceful, picture perfect.
Dogs were everywhere. Stray dogs, community dogs, jerk dogs like this one who ran me off the beach,
and chill-ass cool dogs. You’d see a dog in the afternoon inspecting a stream,
and the same dog in a club later that night, passed out in a corner.
This dog settled next to me as I read on the beach then, a few hours later, weaved among the revelers on the dance floor.
And birds. The birds! I heard way more than I saw, and it was fascinating to hear a sound and not know if it was an insect or a bird or some demented mammal.
A shout-out here to Amy who suggested I get Tevas. I was mucking through rain, fording rivers, falling in and out of the ocean and giant mud puddles, while also hiking and biking and dancing and in a couple questionable shower stalls. They were essential.
DRIFTWOOD DRAGON!
Want to play?
Yay!
Playa perritos. Muy tipico.
When planning my trip, I planned on there being another young woman somewhere in the world also planning a trip to Costa Rica. She might be Canadian, or German. I planned for us to meet, and we would have adventures.
She was German. Her name was Astrid. We ziplined through the canopy in the sheeting rain.
Despite my failure to see real monkeys in real trees, I did see several in quasi-captivity at a rescue and release center. I went into this enclosure and they climbed all over me—snuggling in my arms, leaping on my head and wrestling with other monkeys on my back.
Adorable sloth time!
After three nights, I moved to a hostel in Puerto Viejo. The town is an eclectic mix of Ticos (native Costa Ricans), Afro-Caribbeans, expatriates from all over and short- and long-term backpackers.
It’s touristy, for sure, with its hostel and outlying rustic resort infrastructure and guided tour outfits, but it didn’t seem fake and certainly not moneyed. I hesitate to say “unspoiled” or “authentic,” but it definitely had character and vibrancy, with touches of seediness and sleaziness while nonetheless never seeming dangerous.
Along with my stay in Punta Uva, the area was perfect for my comfort zone—pushed out enough I felt challenged and occasionally hopelessly, awkwardly American, but not crushingly alienated or unwelcome.
My dorm at Sunrise Hostel, however, left much to be desired. Some toilets didn’t have seats; others didn’t have lights. They tried to charge me more than double and my Spanish failed me, but I showed them math and prevailed.
Most restaurants dispense with walls.
I had amazing vegetarian food at Veronica’s Place, below. Overall, everywhere, the food was terrific—beans and rice never tasted so flavorful, and the fried plantains and fresh pineapple were to die for.
Kosher surfer chicken, mon!
My last day on the coast, I biked to Cahuita with Astrid, a good 17 kms (10.5 miles) one way.
I went flying through the rainforest dangling from a wire. I crashed in the waves of the Caribbean Sea. Dogs pawed, monkeys crawled all over me. En route back to San José, I went whitewater rafting, careening in the rapids of the gorgeous Pacuare River.
But what I loved best was just getting on a bike, leisurely pedaling through the gorgeousness of everything.
The bike rental guy warned us of clever thieves and recommended we lock our bikes outside the police station. Sounds reasonable. Upon finding the station in Cahuita with its telltale blue and white paint, we talked up a couple of cops who came to see what the foxy foreigners want. Oh sure, they’d watch our bikes. We could leave them right there.
But they wouldn’t let us lock them to anything. We questioned their logic. They assuaged with nonsense winks and smiles. We protested. They got mad.
We locked the bikes together and walked off shell-shocked, deciding half a minute later this was beyond strange and felt absurdly wrong. We went back to save our bikes amidst admonishments for not trusting them. We were literally yelled at by cops, but jeez, what were we supposed to do? Just let them get lifted? Find ourselves embroiled in some ridiculous scheme where our bikes are “stolen” but the macho trolls “catch the thieves” then expect to get paid or laid? It felt like a sham, a scam, a terribly naive and stupid idea.
So we left them with some Rasta guy instead.
We went to Cahuita for the pleasant ride but mostly for its national park.
Look! Two sloths!
Saw a hundred of these fellas.
A hundred of these translucent crabs, too, plus hermit crabs and cutter ants and a nonchalant raccoon.
I <3 epiphytes! (Plants that grow on other plants.)
The trip to Cahuita was my one day of sun, and I got burned, both ready for home and sad it came so soon. Early the next morning, I leave for the whitewater rafting tour, and in the evening they drop me off in San José. It was a randomly chosen hostel—I just needed a place to sleep before catching a plane the next morning. Sitting in the bar, devouring mac n cheese with a tall Costa Rican craft brew, I figure bed a foregone conclusion.
Then are you coming with us? comes at me five times in three minutes. Next thing I know, I pile in a car with 50 Cent blaring, a stoned Tico with a Finnish girl on his lap shouting in my ear, “How long you been in San José?” to have finally arrived in the company of gangsters, total strangers, hippies and Midwesterners with good hearts.
“About two hours.”
“Cool.”
We clown-car emerge in dance central in a university part of town dense and wild with glitz and swagger, smooth moves, drink, bright lights, Latin grooves, shy grins, nasty beats and anthems. Pulled into the fray, I find and flirt with the rhythm. My companions are mostly American, Australian and Brazilian, impressed and shocked and laughing asses off from my unexpected, unprecedented dance prowess.
I barely know their names but already we are us, comrades, a crew, and when one of us gets stolen by a hottie or a rogue to grind or pantomime being sultry or aloof we squeal and howl and fight back, plucking a Tico or a Tica from the mix while their friends whoop and die of scandal.
I wonder if the Punto Guantecasteco kids are here this is kind of what we’re like, you know? fun and energetic and mostly level-headed, friendly to dogs when they wander in the discos but fearing the ones made of metal.
I scan the swarm for el diablito.
(Thanks for reading!)
Over a year later, my knee’s still not the same, but I find myself dancing anyway, in normal/weird places mostly subdued because well because that joint tenses up.
Insert something poignant about passion and pain, vulnerability, fear of further injury, but I can’t lie. I don’t like attention from passersby, post-improv dark of night, we’re all a little otherworldly. No, I don’t want a ride. Thank you very much, but it’s one of my favorite things, walk rocking out the way I danced in, even if pulling most my punch and judys.
Bundled up buzzed with earbuds and ice breath, I slide-step-stamp a crooked path and know I can’t hide.
Stars wink. The moon is a swollen eye.
The night is full of sirens, distant ambuli and poleece at our beck if we wish, to bring down the sweatervests beating the yarns from another sweatervest, stories in hollers, last breath, “No, Officer, I didn’t get the gist,” even though we stopped for it, violence is loud. Deafens other sound.
Should we call the cops?
What if they kill him and we watch?
What if they beat their women.
But what if they’re just having a bad night. The drink and passion poison, Katy Perry at loud volume, any is enough to trigger aggression, hell, son’ll put a steak on his face in the morning. Right as rain. Officers of the peace will bring war to their future. What if Assault and Battery prevents their profession, these young, preppy men, students of law, of medicine?
What if it doesn’t.
Marketers. Madmen.
The popped-collar gang backs away but the boy who got beat rushes the fray and it all starts again.
Anna calls.
If it is your first visit to my apartment, it’s cool, go for it. Lie on the floor and roll around in my carpet, everybody does it. Hate to give way all my secrets, but it’s how I know you’re okay. You’re one of me.
Priming shouts to dance we check the time, our teeth, our Janus heads chewing forked tails with ales tales! mixed drinks and metaphors, a dense lush deep flush, the ouzo Ouroboros. Hurl the hurt that ain’t, dumb ache and tremor, the promise of fornever RUN FOR COVER! so terrible to trust but so wonderful to wonder how one hand will wash the other.
What’re you gonna be for Halloweeeeeeen? Hell if we know. I still want to be an equestrian in stark, slim riding clothes capped with my horsehead, cracking a crop, but the mask should probably be stowed a couple years or so. Let folk forget. Disabuse that I’m obsessed. I’ve long been intrigued by the athletic challenge of being the Dancing Banana Gif, and some year I’d like to try Carrie White, a costume and performance that would evolve over the night from mild, sweet thing to blood-sopped psycho, though probably minus starting fires with my mind.
We could be sirens, Anna says. Or was it furies. Gorgons. Some version of evil womens, alluring and destructive because I guess that’s what we’re good at, stomping spinning dancing danger and deception. True declination but false elevation. We put you in your place because you get in our way. No soft spots. No hard feelings.
Fleeing the crime scene when the authorities arrive, I must admit: I entertained the fantasy of daring a drunk to punch me in the face then whisking the ruffian victim away, feeding him eggrolls and mp3s to coax come out, wherever you are sobriety. We’d shame him like a brother, threaten to call his mother and tough-love his life away from the brink. Deranging his darkness. Rattling his deathwish. We probably aren’t so different. There’s more to life than this.
Before he remembers he’s sane, could tell us off or tell us his name, before the liniments soothe the pain, within minutes he’d think he’s testing limits, stripping to his ligaments to swim in the shag.
But who’m I kidding. Cut the shit and kill the light.
We ruined more lives than we saved tonight.
Note the date.
The ticket, not torn.
First time listening to the latest album, I knew I had to see them before the opening track was done:
I dreamed about the few US tour locations with the might of so what, I can do this, do anything, I am an adult! now soon again, Happy New Job, Happy Spontaneity, Happy Halloween, Happy Birthday to Me, Happy Favorite Band for Half My Life and Counting, still staggered by the tracks that triggered and changed me. Still changing.
Ticket, purchased.
Not soon after… knee gone awry. Plane tickets not yet bought, I hoped against hope the twist was fluke, would not take my life. It wasn’t. It did. “Sprained ligaments,” or something, not even six weeks would fix, and I know me pretty well. The pain of so close, so far flung away before the stage, I could not have stopped myself from dancing. I can barely hold back in my kitchen. It would have been a nightmare of tears and joint tearing, permanent damage, maybe, for all my everlasting love.
I have seen them before, in Chicago, 2002, the Greyhound solo to a big scary city I didn’t know a soul in, or need to. Every vision quest starts with a decision, determination, a little bit of crazy, lots of heart.
I didn’t try to sell the ticket, hoping I would be magically healed or dangerously self-destructive, last minute fly to San Diego and burst. But no. I am yes an adult. Thirty years old, today. Gray hairs and acne. Still going through a stage as I limp dance across my own.
They steal my breath and give it back, crush my chest and set me writhing, drink my blood and turn me into light. They taught me things don’t have to mean things to tell stories, the sound of words more telling, instrumental than their meaning, and thingevery thingevery thingevery will be all right.
Maybe some other time then okay?
